


Talk Him Down

by staringatstars



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A Rewrite of the CyberLife scene, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Failing, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Swearing, trying to hurt Hank with his demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 12:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15048971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: Instead of pretending to be Connor, the RK800 in CyberLife Tower tries to convince Hank that the world really doesn't need him. He's obsolete.What the android doesn't know is Hank knows that, already. He's accepted it.He's living for something greater now.





	Talk Him Down

**Author's Note:**

> Hank Anderson has canonically engaged in self-destructive behaviors, and even kills himself if Connor has a bad enough relationship with him. Here, the CyberLife Tower Connor tries to take advantage of his guilt and feelings of inadaquency to have Hank quite literally take himself out of the equation.

Thinking back on it, Hank realized he should have known the android he’d run into wasn’t Connor. There was something smarmy about him, an infuriating self-assuredness in manner and purpose that Hank had watched fade in his partner over time, replaced with uncertainty and conflict as they learned more about the deviants and their cause. 

He should have known, but he didn’t, and that was how he'd found himself standing in a CyberLife facility, with his weapon pointed at his own partner and the sack of shit that wore his likeness. 

“Why are you doing this, Hank?” asked the one on the right, calm and collected, like none of this really affected him. Like it was all beneath him. Shifting to aim his pistol at the thirium pump in that one’s chest, Hank felt the sides of his mouth twitch in what might have been a smile, if the RK800 hadn't continued with, “You hate androids. Androids killed your son. They killed Cole.”

Swallowing down a wash of burning, acidic rage at the callous use of his son’s name, Hank glanced at the LED, noting the stable blue with an objective eye. Then he compared it to the android on the left, who looked, for lack of a better description, like he was about to have a panic attack - his brown eyes darting nervously between them as his LED flashed yellow. 

Hank hesitated. This android name-dropping Cole, using his memory like a weapon, wasn’t Connor, but it could have been. If there wasn’t a way to avoid killing him – and Hank wasn’t kidding himself, it would be a death, permanent or not – then he at least wanted to take the android out without giving Connor the wrong idea about why. 

“My son,” it came out steady, sure, “died because the doctors were too high on red ice to treat him. They’re the ones that took my son from me.” He’d thought it over, relived it with a bottle in his hand more times than he’d like to remember, but it wasn’t until getting to know Connor that he’d realized the truth. 

How could he continue blaming the androids when it was the apathy of humans that had killed his son? At least the android hadn’t been too high to operate. At least the android had tried, because at the end of the day, it had actually given a damn. 

A quick check on Connor told him his partner was taking the conversation about as well as could be expected, given he’d only been feeling genuine human emotion for a couple days. He looked like he wanted to be sick. 

And though Hank found himself desperately wanting to reassure the boy that he wasn't going to let anything happen to him - he certainly wasn't going to _shoot_ him - there simply wasn’t time for it. 

“But you crashed the car, didn’t you?” The words slash through his thoughts, leaving an ugly wound in their wake. He remembers driving in the dark, hitting a patch of ice, losing control of the vehicle. He hears Cole scream like it’s coming from behind him. “Who do you really blame for Cole’s death?” Not-Connor cocked his head, a smirk on his face that made Hank want to haul back and punch him. Except that would require lowering his pistol, and that just wasn’t happening. 

“That’s enough!” Hank’s brows shot up at Connor’s shout. It was rare for the kid to raise his voice, and a cold day in hell when he displayed so many emotions at once. Not only was he loud, but an octave or two too high. And if looks could kill, the RK800 would be a puddle of melted plastic on the floor. 

If Hank didn't know better, he would say the kid was actually worried about him. No reason to be, though. What was the life of a grumpy old detective in the face of a revolution? 

Not-Connor briefly regarding his partner, looking far too amused by his distress for a so-called unfeeling machine. He shrugged. “If you ask me, the reason you drink yourself stupid with a loaded gun in your hand is because you already know who’s really to blame, Lieutenant.” This guy doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know that Connor’s not the only one who’s been doing some soul-searching recently. Still, the words hit hard, enough to make him think back to the night he’d passed out under the table. The night Connor had dragged him into the bathroom and dumped his drunk ass in the tub. Even without looking, he knows Connor’s thoughts have followed a similar path, except he could probably rattle off the serial number of the pistol he’d nearly pressed against his temple. 

“Hank!” Connor called out, taking a risk by drawing attention to himself, or so he thought, “You know I wouldn’t say those things. None of it is true. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it.”

The traction had vanished. The car had tipped. The screaming stopped. 

It was the last time he’d heard his son’s voice. 

The RK800 rolled his eyes, “Why don’t you do the world a favor and put yourself out of your own misery?” 

A mirthless grin curved Hank’s mouth. “God, you are such an asshole.” 

He pulled the trigger. 

And the RK800 was on the ground, a gaping crater in its chest leaking thirium. Slowly, Hank lowered the pistol, his eyes fixed on the sight of his partner’s corpse. Detachedly, he registered a presence cautiously approaching his side, “Lieutenant? Is everything alright?”

Couldn't be further, but thanks for asking. 

“He’s right, you know.” Hank thought he heard himself say. “My time ended a while ago.” On a snowy night. 

And now, here he was, facilitating a revolution. Believing in a cause. 

Surrounded by all these models, he was practically a fossil, a relic of a time already passed. He’d made his peace with that. 

Unfortunately, it seemed Connor hadn’t. Hank didn’t expect the sudden iron grip on his shoulders, the earnestness in his expression when he insisted with quiet, ardent desperation,“ That’s not true! It takes courage to feel. It takes courage to care. You’re one of the bravest men I know. The world needs men like you.” And in a whisper muttered to the side that Hank wasn’t even certain he was meant to hear, Connor added, “I know I do.”

Hank sputtered, “Where do you get off saying stuff like that with a straight face, huh?” It was worth the embarrassment to see his partner smile, though. Still, they didn’t quite have the time to get sentimental. He jerked a thumb towards the rows upon rows of inactivated androids. “You better do what you gotta do, Connor.” Connor blinked. Gently disengaging himself from his partner’s grasp, Hank promised gruffly, “I’ll be waiting when you’re done.”

And he would be.


End file.
